


Wrecked by Guilt

by HeDoesLoveToBeDramatic



Series: Wrecked by Guilt [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, slight johnlock if you're squinting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:49:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeDoesLoveToBeDramatic/pseuds/HeDoesLoveToBeDramatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Can you even imagine what it’s like, living for three years, thinking you could have stopped your best friend from killing himself? As if mourning your death didn’t hurt enough,” John said, annoyingly having his voice break on the last word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrecked by Guilt

John got out of the cab and made his way towards the front door. His step faltered as he noticed there were lights on in his living room. Quickening his pace, he rushed inside and up the stairs. He entered the living room and quickly scanned the room, his eyes focusing on a figure sitting in a chair. John took a step forwards, his breath hitching, not quite believing his own eyes. The figure stirred, slowly rising out of the chair and taking a few tentative steps towards John. John felt his heart hammering in his chest. A word – a name – formed on his lips, but he kept silent, not daring to pronounce it. Not daring to hope. It must be some trick. _A magic trick_ , he thought unwillingly. It could not be…

And yet, there he was. Thinner and gaunt, but undoubtedly him. Sherlock. Disbelief clouded his mind as his eyes locked with Sherlock’s.

He was here, in their flat, alive and well. Not dead, John thought embittered, while desperately looking for an explanation.

The moment Sherlock started to open his mouth to speak, John felt the anger rising him. Sheer, blinding anger. Behind John’s dark eyes, a million thoughts were racing. In a reflex he pulled back and punched Sherlock, releasing his anger.

Once Sherlock had recoiled from the punch, John had collected himself again. Confusion and anger were still his most prominent emotions, but there was hurt there as well. Sherlock, noticing this, looked down. They were both silent for a while, each collecting their thoughts. Eventually, Sherlock opened his mouth again, eyeing John wearily.

“Moriarty,” he started hesitatingly, “His gunmen were instructed to kill you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade if I didn’t jump.” John looked away, fighting the memory. “I had no choice. I had to do this to save all of you.” They looked at each other for a few moments.

“Three years,” John managed to utter eventually, before his voice faltered.

“I had to destroy Moriarty’s web, get rid of all his henchmen. It took longer than I had expected,” Sherlock explained.

“You could… You should have told me. Trusted me.”

“They were watching you. They needed to believe I was dead,” Sherlock told him, dismayed and surprised to notice a hint of desperation in his own voice.

“For three years,” John tried to start again, “I wondered why you killed yourself.” Sherlock looked away again, his insides turning painfully. “I knew you weren’t a fraud. ‘So why did you jump?’ I wondered. Was it because the public didn’t believe in you? But you had never cared about the public opinion, I reminded myself. Was it, then, because Moriarty was getting to you? Making people believe he was actually Richard Brook? Were you afraid you couldn’t continue your job? But surely you, perhaps with help from Mycroft, could have proven Richard Brook didn’t exist and never had? So I started wondering – fearing rather – that perhaps you thought that I didn’t believe in you? That you thought your friends had lost their faith in you? And if that was true – if that was the reason – wasn’t there something I could’ve done? Could I have convinced you we did believe in you? Either way, I should have tried harder, I told myself. Can you even imagine what it’s like, living for three years, thinking you could have stopped your best friend from killing himself? As if mourning your death didn’t hurt enough,” John said, annoyingly having his voice break on the last word.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, “this was the only way.”

John’s face crumbled, he held the wall for support. He turned his face towards Sherlock, indecision marking his features.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I just… don’t know,” he said in a small voice. Sherlock nodded, unsure. “I just need to think for a while,” John eventually said.

*

Lying in bed, hearing Sherlock walking around downstairs, probably seeing what had changed and what hadn’t, John tried to think about all that had happened. Of course he would let Sherlock back into his life, there had never been any doubt about that. Although, perhaps it would be more appropriate to say he would let himself back into Sherlock’s life. He needed the excitement Sherlock offered him, the thrill. He needed to witness Sherlock’s brilliance while solving a case. He needed to be involved, to write down the cases, while putting up with occasional critique from Sherlock. But most of all, he needed Sherlock’s friendship.

He sighed, twisting and turning in his bed. He knew these three years would always remain as a gap between them. Always there at the back of their minds. But, he admitted to himself, he knew that if he had been in Sherlock’s position, he probably would have done the same. Because in the end, Moriarty and his web had been destroyed and both Sherlock and John were alive and safe.

*

John got up the next morning in a haze. He made his way downstairs, not certain what to expect. He swallowed as he walked into the living room, seeing Sherlock sitting in his chair, seemingly deep in thought.

“Have you told the rest yet?” John said, sitting down in the chair opposite Sherlock.

“I have spoken to Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock started, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “It’s fair to say she was shocked, but I think she’s got round to it.” He looked at John with hesitation. “Mycroft and Molly knew.”

John smiled bitterly, “I see.” He realised how Molly could have been helpful, but it still hurt to know she had been in on the secret all along.

“I needed them to fake my death,” Sherlock explained, willing John to understand. “And they weren’t monitoring them nearly as closely as they were you. They knew who was most important to me,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. John was slightly surprised at how easily Sherlock expressed his feelings. These three years had apparently changed them both. “John, I’m sorry. If there had been any other way, I wouldn’t have done this.”

“I know Sherlock. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though. That will just take time,” John said softly.

“I understand,” he answered. “Would it be all right if I move back into Baker Street?”

John, despite himself, chuckled. “Of course it would. Now that you’re back, I don’t think I could manage losing you again,” John answered, thinking it only fair that he should voice his own feelings as well.


End file.
